Page 22 of In These Hills

“No, please,” Josephine said quickly, attempting to sound confident. “I can cook! In fact, I’m . . . very good at it.”

Miss Mary started to respond when footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Sorry for taking so long,” Calla whispered, arms ladened with bedding. “One of the tenants needed something.”

“Mr. Motlow?” Miss Mary asked.

“Who else.” Calla rolled her eyes then winked. “Needed help with his hearth. That flue’s getting a little gummed up, I think. I’ll get Charlie out to look at it.”

“Thank you, Calla. Well, it’s late.” Miss Mary gestured. “Good night to you both. And Mrs. Dunham . . . I aim for everyone who comes to my table a stranger to leave as a friend. Don’t make that difficult this time. Come morning, we’ll have us that interview.”

“Interview?” Calla asked before Josephine could. “Are you trying out for job of second cook, ma’am?”

Josephine nodded, looking back at Miss Mary. “But what do you mean by interview?”

“Well, I’ve got to know what you can do before you get the job!” Miss Mary exhaled. “Won’t be anything hard. Just making some biscuits with sausage gravy, or maybe some fried hand pies. Any cook worth her salt can handle that.”

Seeing the dare in Miss Mary’s expression, Josephine worked to keep the panic from her own. “Of course,” she replied, trying for a casual tone.

“Oh, ’fore I forget . . .” Calla fished something from the bedding. “Mr. Motlow still had it up in his room. Said he done forgot the rule.”

It was Miss Mary’s turn to roll her eyes. “How many times do we have to tell that dear man to bring the newspapers back to the lobby?”

Seeing the folded newspaper in Miss Mary’s grip, Josephine felt a flush of warning.

Bidding a “good night” over her shoulder, Miss Mary disappeared into the last room on the right and closed the door behind her.

“Lynchburg has a newspaper?” Josephine asked, her chest tightening as the distance between Lynchburg and Atlanta shrank by the second.

“Oh gracious, no. No newspaper. And no telegraph either. That’d be The Chattanooga Times I just gave to Miss Mary. Rich man in town gets it posted to him, then shares it with Miss Mary and her tenants after he’s done. It’s sometimes nigh onto a week old by the time we get it, but least we know what’s been going on out in the world. Come on now . . .” She gestured to the door at the end of the hallway. “I live in the cabin out back. Let’s get your bed made so you can fall headlong into it.”

The Chattanooga Times? Delivered to Lynchburg? As Josephine followed, the dreaded tick tick tick began drumming inside her again. Only one week until what she’d done in Atlanta could become the talk of these Tennessee backwoods.

Was there anywhere she could go to outrun this?

9

DAWN EDGED OVER THE HEAVILY FORESTED HILLS in a glowing blaze of gold and indigo, colors that would forever remind Dodge of his sister—and of a similar sunrise some ten years ago. Steam rose from his coffee cup and ghosted a pane of the front window that overlooked the lower pasture. How blind he’d been to the plans Kathleen had been hatching. He should have seen it coming. Should have figured that Kathleen—all of sixteen at the time, independent, stubborn as a mule with an adventuresome spirit to match, and eager to see the world—would trust far too easily. Would believe enticing lies cloaked in citified charm and dripping with promises of all that could be.

That morning had been a chilly one, much like today, and it hadn’t taken him long to realize she’d sneaked off during the night with that slick-tongued devil of a man who lured her to Nashville, took what he wanted, then abandoned her there.

Dodge winced. He’d never wanted to kill a man so badly in his life. And he would have, too. If he could’ve found him.

He tossed the remaining corn cakes into the skillet with the scrambled eggs, then heard a gentle whine. Jessie stared up at him, her head cocked to one side, ears pricked. Her cattle-dog coloring—the customary blue-gray hide shot through with black specks and the warm tan markings on her cheeks, chest, and legs—fairly glowed in the twilight hours. But his favorite was the black marking that haloed her right eye and trailed to her ear. Looked like she was wearing an eye patch.

He tossed her a bite of eggs then leaned down and rubbed her behind the ears. “You’re a beauty, you know that? Now go on, sweet girl, and eat the food I already put out for you.”

Jessie eyed him as though making sure he meant business, then trotted obediently to the tin in the corner and did as asked.

Dodge cleaned the breakfast dishes, then quietly peered into Bethie’s bedroom. She was still asleep, her blonde hair spilled across the pillow all wild and free like the mane of her sorrel mare when Bethie loosened the reins and gave Ginger Snap the lead. That horse could fly. And the girl could ride, too. Better than most of his farmhands. She was a natural.

In moments like this the thought that he needed to be not just an uncle to her, his niece, but a father now, threatened to overwhelm him. “God, help me do right by her,” he whispered more in his heart than aloud. Don’t let me fail her like I did my little sister. He would not make that same mistake again. He’d keep closer rein on Bethie. Wouldn’t allow her head to be filled with foolishness and nonsensical ideas that would only lead to heartache and ruin.

Of course, that was easier said than done. The girl read everything within arm’s reach and had a thirst for learning that couldn’t be slaked. But she came by it naturally. He’d forever be grateful to Dr. Salmon for letting him grow up in that library of his. The same library that now belonged to Miss Mary in the boarding house. Dr. Salmon’s wide variety of books had held such fascination for a boy of eight—and still provided enjoyment for a man of thirty-four.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz lay open on Bethie’s bedside table. Beneath that, The Time Machine and The Little Mermaid. She’d already read those novels, same as him—the latter at her request so they could discuss it—and the stories had sparked some lively back-and-forth, especially when Kathleen was still alive.

He stared at the books, then at Bethie, aware of the common thread running through those stories. Excitement. Adventure. Discovering different worlds and faraway lands. She was so much like her mother, possessing that same indomitable spirit. He could still hear the excitement in Kathleen’s voice when he’d first told his sister about Wyoming.